A Trip in the Road
by Of Pearls and Paints
Summary: The abrupt beep beep beep of my alarm clock is what surely pulls me out of my deep slumber. I awake with a groan, no doubt dreading this day, the day I start my sophomore year, attend high school again. AU
1. Chapter 1

The abrupt _beep beep beep_ of my alarm clock is what surely pulls me out of my deep slumber. I awake with a groan, no doubt dreading this day, the day I start my sophomore year, attend high school again.

During the summer, I had a plan, a schedule of sorts. A single goal, to keep my sister, my mother, and I going. That's all. Working at the super market near my house was not necessarily a fun or easy task. Peeved customers, endless lines, the constant noise. I'd just about had enough of "_Come to Savvy Shop: where you too can be a savvy shopper"_.

But my personal tribulations with my job were no match for the constant need to support my family. Ever since my father died from a freak accident where he worked, my mother has fallen into a deep depression. She sat, silent and cold on her chair. Never talking, moving. Prim, my sister, did all she could to rose the mother we used to know, with her small smiles and caring spirit. Alas, it was fruitless. My mother was gone, off the deep end to God knows where. In reality, Prim and I were starving, the bills were adding up, and even the mailman knew something was indeed wrong.

Filled with some fervent spark inside me, I called the last living related I knew: drunken and surly Haymitch. We preferred not to talk about Haymitch, my family and I. Spending his days wasting away in his stink hole, drinking until unconsciousness. Not exactly a person you'd be proud of calling your long-lost relative. Within a few calls, not to admit a screaming match, my relative had given our family enough money to make it through the month.

Still, money was short. Haymitch's money couldn't last forever. I still had no idea how he got it all, perhaps he had some money-making career he gave up on or had inherited the money.

Then I met Gale. I was ten, grabbing the last can of beans at _Savvy Shop _when suddenly I felt a hand cover mine, perhaps reaching for the same can. Filled with shock and surprise I whipped around to see a boy around twelve years old staring at me. His gray eyes were hard and unfeeling and he towered over me. Feeling that this was not the place to start a fight with an older boy I said "Take it".

His eyebrows rose in surprise, and instead of hardness in his eyes I saw something lighter. As he grabbed the can I took in the rest of him, the slightly worn clothes, the desperation in his face that so mirrored mine. Suddenly I knew this boy was more like me than not,that he too was keeping his family going at such a young age.

In his pockets lay a small wad of money and a list, assumably for any items he needed to check off. For some odd reason I felt compelled to help this boy, the boy who was possibly in the same predicament I was. But before I could even open my mouth to say anything, something, he was gone.

However, that was not the last time we would see each other. Every so often I would see a glimpse of him, around town, in the super market. More often than not I looked for the boy with black hair and cold grey eyes. What I was looking for I had no idea.

It wasn't until I almost literally ran into him that we had our next conversation. "Sorry," he muttered.

A frown was upon his face. Did that boy ever smile? In the crash, I had dropped my things and he reached down to pick them up. "Thanks" I replied.

"You're around here a lot," he said, stating the obvious.

Had he been watching me also? "Yeah," I said stupidly.

As if suddenly coming back to reality, I held my things closer to my body. A feeling of awkwardness came into play, it hovered and lingered and kept me from opening my mouth. He swallowed, and I knew it was not only me who was uncomfortable. "You live near the woods right?" I asked, saying anything to extinguish the silence that would soon overcome us.

He nodded, but I can tell he was uneasy at the fact that I know where he lives, or perhaps he felt the unsettling silence between us. Quickly clearing his throat he said, "I'm Gale. You?"

"Katniss," I answered quietly.

"Catnip? You're named after a plant that makes cats crazy?"

"No!" I exclaim. "I mean, my name is Katniss, not Catnip."

After that there seemed like there was an unspoken agreement to help each other. It started out with just asking each other what we needed to buy that day; only necessary words spoken between us. It was easier working together, hunting down sales, buying together instead of separately to save money.

Then one day I showed him my special place. The woods have forever held a place in my heart since my father took me there when I was a young girl. In the poorer, shabbier part of my town abides an abundant amount of trees and a long, winded stream. I remember being in awe of the tall trees surrounding me, the sunlight hitting them in the perfect spots, creating a marvelous painting. I remember stealthily walking through the stream, jumping over rocks, pretending that my father and I were on our own adventure. Hiking the paths and hearing the sweet melody of the birds with my father are some of my favorite memories.

Since my father's death I hadn't had the courage to ever go back their again. But at that precise moment I felt a desire to share this place with a friend, someone who respected me and with which I could share my secrets with. Upon entering, I could tell that Gale would love and treasure this place just as much as I did. And so we made it a routine to visit there every week, to go to our secret spot.

It wasn't as though the woods were caged in, no, there was a much better reason most people didn't dare enter.

_A curse_, some said. _Haunted_, others replied. An old story was told long and long ago, past down from generation to generation.

It was told that long ago a young man was hanged for supposedly murdering three people. No one objected it, questioned it even. Although the man had no previous crimes, everyone agreed that it would be best. It was said that the man had a lover, that they had made plans to leave the town the day before his hanging.

At the edge of the woods stood an old weathered tree, much higher than the rest. Etched on it were little quotes, people's names, old couples. However etched clearly on the middle were the words "The Hanging Tree". It was decided that this should be the tree the man should be hung on. After he was hung, there was certain uneasiness among the people. Perhaps it was his lover's broken spirit, or the mere thought of knowing that you killed one of your own. Whatever it was, barely anyone enters the woods anymore. People have said that his ghost haunts the Hanging Tree, still calling out for his lover to leave.

Ghost, or no ghost, I've never felt like the woods are or were haunted. In facts I've gazed at the tree on several occasions, looking at past dates and doodles.

All of this goes through my head as I get ready for school. Prim stands in front of me in an old outfit of mine, wearing a blouse and skirt. My mother soon came back to life after my meeting with Gale, and now she has an old pretty blue dress of hers back when we had money laid out for me for my first day of my sophomore year. In disbelief I ask, "Is this for me?" My mother nods and she braids my hair into an intricate design. I gaze at myself in the mirror as Prim says in a hushed voice, "You look beautiful." I've never really thought of myself as beautiful. My appearance doesn't matter to me, but I suppose I do look nice.

"Not as beautiful as you are, little duck," I answer. My mother drives us to school in our extremely old truck, battered with the paint peeling all over the place. Prim goes to the grade school and I enter my favorite place in the world: high school.


	2. Chapter 2

Fortsfield High School isn't really known for anything special. One might consider the fact that the bathrooms always smell disgusting makes my school special, or the fact that this is the only school in which a kid received a fatal attack from wasps. But I don't consider my school special for any of those reasons or for any reasons at all.

Named after my town, Fortsfield has had a reputation of incidents. First it was the "fall" that made Burt Wenderson break his neck, then it was the whole killer wasp incident, and then finally it was Sidney's heart attack that resulted in a change of principal.

Mr. Hinder, I believe that's his name, is a portly man who never leaves his office. The only reason I know he's portly is because I've seen pictures him in his office in the school yearbook.

In fact I haven't seen him once since I entered the high school last year and I certainly don't intend to. I've learned not to trust people who never show their face.

Eyeing the faded brick wall that supports our school, I enter to see hundreds of kids, all wearing different colors and all chatting ecstatically to their friends about how their summer "was sooo amazing"!Of course, there are a few standing awkwardly about, waiting for the bell to ring. I was one of them.

I see Madge, one of the few people I might actually call my friend, walk into my homeroom. Since she is the mayor's daughter, one might think she is stuck-up, but she actually is quiet and nice. We both don't have partners for projects or gym or anything for that matter, so we usually work together silently.

Gale, being two years older than I and a senior, has little to no interaction with me during school. Even if we were in the same class I doubt he would talk to me. Gale has his own friends.

My paper with my schedule on it has already become tattered in the month since I received it; most likely since it was buried underneath countless receipts. Squinting to see what is across from 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 a.m., I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, expecting to see Gale, or perhaps a lost freshman, but instead find a blonde girl with wavy hair. Madge. "What's first?" Madge asks.

"English," I answer.

"Pretty dress," she says. I instinctively glance down at my dress, remembering that it was once my mother's.

"Thank you," I say politely. Madge and I have never been one for conversation, so we stand around, praying for the bell to ring, but mostly just waiting for the day to be over.

Each class starts with a groan, or the occasion sigh. The teachers have been waiting all summer to dump schoolwork on us, and they certainly aren't delaying their sick pleasure in making us work hard.

English comes with a writing assignment, chemistry brings a paper on the makeup of different gases, and geometry bears an almost impossible assignment. I swear my teachers are trying to kill me with homework this year.

Lunch, however, provides a short escape from the mountain of homework that awaits me. It really isn't until U.S. history that I get a sense of the hellish state my life will turn into.

My teacher, , announces that we are going to do a project about the good impacts any of the wars in American history had. "I will split you up into pairs of two. No complaining, and absolutely no exceptions," she adds. That's , excruciatingly strict and monotonous, just like her perfect brown bob and black pencil skirts.

While picking groups, I hold my breath and wish for Madge. We work well together, sectioning the work evenly and fairly.

All around me people are telling each other who they want to work with. I catch Madge's eye and raise my eyebrows as if to ask, "Yes?" She nods as an answer.

yells at every one to settle down until at last all I can hear is my own heartbeat, racing fast and pleading to pick Madge.

After each name calling responds with occasional groans and "I can't stand her!" At last I hear my name. "Katniss Everdeen with…" Madge. Madge. Madge. But it's not Madge's name. It's Peeta Mellark's.

For a second my heart skips a beat. Not him. Anyone but him would be fine, even Gerd, who always has runny nose.

I remember it as though it happened just yesterday. This happened before Haymitch entered our lives, carrying a surly temper and loads of money, before I met Gale and had a friend, before I entered sixth grade.

That particular day was extremely bad, what with my mother staring emotionless yet again at the bills piling up and Prim asking for one of the many things I couldn't provide: food. It wasn't enough, using the money my father had left over for us. It wasn't enough, using everything drop by drop, bit by bit. It wasn't enough with me trying my absolute best.

Run dry by the sheer emotions and hopelessness, I ran, far away, as if simply running away from my troubles could fix them. As if a miniscule run could fix the plentiful problems I faced. I ran, ran, ran. Ran until my lungs hurt and my heart beat came quickly.

When I finally looked at my surroundings I found that I was in the richer, more expensive part of Fortsfield. The fancy fenced-in houses were as unfamiliar as the people who lived in them.

Suddenly it began to rain, the sky mirroring my mood of gray.

A garbage can was to the right and suddenly a thought occurred to me. What is there was still food in there? I was so desperate I didn't think twice.

To my dismay, they were absolutely empty. Not one scrap of food lay in the black abyss.

That's when I truly broke down, sobbed, wept. I was too young to have such responsibility. Too young to have a broken mother and a sister whose belly was never full. Too young to be left alone by a father who loved her.

I collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by the constant hunger I felt and the emotions I once carried so well.

It was the sound of yelling that roused me too my senses. "What do you think you're doing? I'm so sick of having you poor people come taking my food," a lady screamed at me.

Suddenly she was distracted by the thud of something falling. "Peeta! How many times do I have to tell you not to burn the bread? Go feed it to the birds," she yelled.

I stared in alarm as she hit him, an absolute oddity in my household. My parents would never even think of hitting Prim and I.

Then I saw him, bright blue eyed with wavy blonde hair. His eyes held what only read as surprise. He threw a few pieces to the birds and then, without even looking at me directly, threw the whole burnt loaf to me.

Shock entered my body. This was for me? _No, it couldn't be_, I told myself. But he did throw in right in my direction. I grasped the still warm bread, put it under my shirt, and ran home, filled with the joyous feeling of hope.

That night we feasted on the hearty bread, which was filled with raisins and nuts. My mother, perhaps coming to her sense at the sight of food, ate with us as well.

The following day I saw the same boy, and his blue eyes met my gray ones only to dart away again.

A dandelion, the first one of the season, a strong but beautiful weed, lay at my feet. I was reminded that not all hope was lost, that their had to be a way to keep us going, their had to be.

In the following months I kept the image of the dandelion as a symbol of hope. It was the one intangible thing that gave me strength to call Haymitch and ask for his help.

Even now, I can not forget this boy, the bread, the dandelion. The symbols of hope.

But to presently be directly talking to him and working together? I'll need a few dandelions myself.


	3. Chapter 3

"So which war would you like to do?" Peeta Mellark asks. I sit precariously away from him, still smoldering under the unanticipated turn my day has had.

"I don't care," I say, picking at a loose thread on my sweater. And I honestly don't. I could care less about what war we pick; all I care about is finishing this stupid project.

What keeps running through my head is how I'm still in his dept. I haven't repaid him, and how will I ever? How could I if I can actually say that I know him now? The first gifts are hardest to pay back, and it's not like I can inconspicuously repay him somehow.

"Okay. I'm going to tell that we're going to do World War 1. Is that alright?" he asks. It seems that Peeta Mellark sincerely is a nice person, always asking for my consent before making a decision.

"Yeah," I mutter. Peeta proceeds by informing the teacher which war we will talk about in our project.

"She said we need to have an object or poster, something you can look at basically, to go with the project. Any ideas?"

I make a half-hearted attempt to help by suggesting that we make a poster. "Does that count?"

"I guess so," Peeta replies.

"It's the easiest thing we could do," I say sensibly.

"We might not get a high grade. could interpret it as laziness."

Oh, Peeta. Constantly trying to be so innovative and whatnot just to achieve the high-earned A+. Smirking I respond, "Well it is" I stare moodily at the paper, as if I could be doing better things with my time. Which is absolutely true.

"Do you want to do well on this or not," he snaps. My eyes widen in surprise. I never thought Peeta to be one that gets upset or angry. His blue orbs stare intensely at mine, demanding a direct answer.

"Yes," I say quietly.

"Alright. I was thinking we could make a model of an airplane. And then talk about the effect of air planes on the war." I mull over this new idea, so unlike anything I could ever come up with.

"But for the written part we should talk about the effects the war had on the United States, which should be easy," he adds. My nature is to retort about how much harder he just made this project, but I hold my tongue because I told him "yes" and I do still owe him. How infuriating he is.

"When's it due?" I ask.

"Two weeks from now," he replies. Two weeks? How am I supposed to finish this huge project, with having to work, take care of each payment, and a load of other homework?

Sighing, I respond, "What should I do tonight?" I pull my fingers through my hair, already dreading all of the work waiting me, looming over my head like an ache that won't go away till you stretch.

"How about you start writing about the effect airplanes had on World War 1? I'll begin writing about the impact the war had on the United States. Later on we'll work on the airplane together," he says.

_Together? Well this __**is **__a group project._ I nod, accepting the fact that the real work, making the airplane, won't come until later.

We sit together awkwardly; it seems as though everyone else is still making their plans. I grapple for a topic in the air and come up with nothing. Peeta and I are as different as can possibly be. Him being from town, always having enough to eat, growing up with the smell of freshly baked bread, me growing up in the poor part of town, constantly scraping for money. The privileged meeting the underprivileged. I look in my assignment planner, hoping to hear the bell ring in seconds. "What do you have for homework?" he questions, being nonintrusive.

I look up to see that he simply doesn't want anything from me, to mock me, to ask why I am such a horrible unsociable person. "Well I have a writing assignment for English, a paper on gases for chemistry, and geometry is impossible" I say.

His eyebrows are raised and an amused expression is on his face. "Wow. Looks like you've got a lot of work to do. Regretting being my partner already?" he jokes.

"Oh, I regretted it from the beginning" I see a smile materialize on his face, and it's unlike anything I've ever seen. I've seen him smile before, of course, but never have I seen him smiling at me.

A small knot of trouble bunches in my stomach. Why should he be smiling at me? Isn't this simply a project? We aren't friends, are we? From now on I will not make Peeta Mellark smile.

On cue the bells rings, and I grab my books, attempting to reach my locker through the throng of people. Madge's locker is near mine, and I ask her who she's working on the American history project with. "Gerd," she states.

I huff, and reply "You did better than me. At least your partner hasn't-" I stop short, realizing what I was about to say. _"Hasn't saved your life before"_ were the words about to fly out of my mouth.

"Hasn't what, Katniss?"

"Never mind" I say quickly. Luckily Madge isn't one to pry, so she doesn't respond.

"It'll be over before you know it," she says.

"What? The project or school?" I wonder.

"Both" At this, my mouth upturns into a smile. Madge's sunny view of life is so different than mine.

On the way home, Prim tells me all about her day at school. I just need to interject with a "Really?" or "That sound fun" and she'll talk till my mother drives our rusty truck to the driveway.

What's nice about the truck is that because there are only two seats, Prim and I can sit in the trunks, legs dangling dangerously over the edge. It's nice, feeling so free with the wind whipping through my face. "How was your day?" Prim finally asks.

"Oh, same old same old. You know, trying to avoid the bathrooms at all costs," I tease. At this, Prim laughs. It's such a beautiful, full sound that reminds me of days past in which she would laugh more frequently. Days gone.

"I know. Their totally gross," she says.

"Even in the elementary school?" I excitedly ask.

"Katniss! Will you stop calling it that? Soon I'll be in junior high," she says proudly, as if being a seventh grader was the most grown-up thing ever.

"It's the same thing," I insist.

"It is not!" she says indignantly.

"Alright, alright. You're in the sixth grade. Not the elementary school, not in **junior high**," I emphasize the word junior high to poke fun at Prim. She makes an offended face and crosses her arms.

I sit, staring blankly at the stack of homework on the table. In a few hours I must leave to work at _Savvy Shop_.

For once, I entrusted my mother with the job of buying a few things at the store. Slowly I have been allowing her to help me, instead of just pushing her out like I usually do.

Feeling hopeless for a minute and certainly not in the mood to do homework, I make sure Prim is working in her room, I do one thing I've wanted to do since I woke up this morning: go to the woods.

Usually I only go to the woods on Sundays, when Gale has time. Having to support three other siblings isn't an easy task, especially since Gale's father died in the same freak accident my father did. In the time I began knowing Gale, I also got to know his family: his hardworking mother, charming Posy, messy Vick, and chatty Rory. I grew to care for them as I care for my own family and we are currently in good terms.

As soon as I enter the woods, all tension leaves my face and body. It seems as though I let out a breath I never knew I was holding. I grin naturally, relishing in my freedom. I suddenly am a five-year old, running gleefully through the woods. "Oomph," I hear. In my state I somehow managed to crash into Gale.

"You aren't trying to reenact our second meeting, are you Catnip?" Gale asks.

"Gale? What are you going here? You're busy pretty much everyday except for Sunday," I say.

"You are too. I came here to clear my head. What else? " I don't question this. I'm not the only one running around with cyclones raging in my head. We walk to a spot, our spot, right next to the Hanging Tree.

"Never gets old does it?" he questions, pertaining to the tree.

"No, it doesn't," I reply. It's extremely nice, being silent with Gale. Instead of the awkwardness I felt with Peeta, there is an understanding between us built upon years of friendship.

Gale shakes his head, as if to clear it, and then smiles. "We tried to get Vick to take a proper shower this morning" he says.

"Yeah? What happened?" I say, curious.

"We told him that being clean attracts girls. And by clean I mean not having dirt on you all of the time"

I smile, imagining the scene. Vick hates taking showers, and is more often than not covered in dirt.

"What'd he do?"

"Oh he went on about how this one girl likes him despite his "cleaning issues" Then he said he didn't mean to say cleaning issues, he really just meant his natural cleaning method."

"Really? Which girl?"

"You wouldn't know her. Anyway, she's extremely nice and all. I have no idea how Vick got her to fall for him"

"Maybe it was his "natural cleaning method"," I joke.

"Maybe," he agrees.

I've always been waiting for May eighth, May eighth. The day I turn fifteen and am allowed to work at _Savvy Shop_. Hard work is expected, and long hours will be given. I accepted this the day I was trained, and still do today. Babying is one thing they don't do here.

I work the cashiers, waiting on hundreds of cranky customers just waiting to cook dinner, or feed their cat, or whatever they do when they come home from the super market.

Coupons are an accident waiting to happen and require several phone calls to the manager asking if I can use a 15% off coupon with a 20% percent off one for the same product. Unfortunately the answer is no.

I tell that to one lady and she starts going off about how much she hates this place and how she never wants to come here again. _Okay, I get it, I get it. You totally hate us. I do too._

Next up is a timid man who is buying fifty cans of cat food. I wonder how many cats he has, or if he works at a shelter. "That would be $10.50, sir" I say.

He fishes in his man purse (?) and takes out a one hundred dollar bill. _Oh boy. Doesn't he have something smaller?_ Apparently he doesn't speak English because when I ask him if he has a smaller bill as he does is point at his bill and nod yes. _I'll try it again._ "Do you have anything else? A smaller number, maybe?"

I point to the number on the bill and hopes he gets it. Instead he does the motion again. I hand him his $89.50 change back and proceed onto the next customer.

By the time eleven o'clock comes around I am completely exhausted and want more than anything to fall asleep. My brain is tired-no everything is tired.

_Savvy Shop_ is extremely close to Gale's house and my house, not exactly near the woods but not completely away from it either. I can tell Gale is drained too, and I don't pull away when he surprises me by hugging me good-bye.

Gale isn't necessarily a touchy person with me, we have our boundaries, but I yearn for someone, if only for a moment, to take the burden of my struggle. For an odd reason his smell of oranges is almost comforting. "Bye Katniss," for once saying my real name.

"Bye Gale" I trudge on up to the kitchen where I realize the homework I put off. English and chemistry come easy enough, but geometry is one thing I can't get. Half conscious and sleepy, I randomly fill in answers that have nothing to do with the problems.

Sleep easily entraps me and I realize too late the one thing I forgot to do: write about the effect airplanes had on World War 1.


	4. Chapter 4

The darkness offers me no support, it only prolongs the horrors only imaginable during the night.

A flash, an explosion. Me telling my father to run, run, run. Instead I see him blow up, never to be seen again. I never actually saw it. My father's death, I mean. Instead I dream up horrible visions of ways in which he died. No one was left after the accident; the factory burnt down.

I still remember the one time my father took me to his work. The refined lines encompassing each section, the constant noise. I could tell that they were always moving, that real, important things happened there.

It's hard to imagine that there is nothing left. Just a bit of sparse grass is all that remains.

I wake up gasping for air, choking back a sob. _It's not real, Katniss. It's not real_, I tell my self over and over again. It was merely a nightmare, but it seems unfeasible because of the sharp and clearness of it all.

Shaking my head as if to clear it, I begin to ready myself for school. Braid my hair, clothe myself in clean garments, brush my teeth. By the time I walk downstairs the affects of the nightmare have worn off. "Good morning, Prim. Ready to tackle your second day of sixth grade?" I ask.

"Yes!" she says. Somehow Prim manages to put on a smile early in the morning.

The ride to the school is bumpy and I almost manage to hurl up whatever water was in my stomach.

I enter, seeing the same faces, the same people I've seen everyday for a year now.

Mornings flies by quickly, however, an odd feeling enters my stomach when I hand in my geometry homework, which most likely earned an F for failure. I certainly didn't care much while doing it, but soon I will pay for my rashness.

Madge, seeing me struggling with it during lunch, offers to help. She gives me almost the exact lesson the teacher did, and it takes all my strength to not yell out and say "But that doesn't help me at all!"

I wonder what Peeta's reaction will be to me not working on the paper. Will he be mad, upset, or simply disappointed? The latter will hurt the most, knowing that I failed to write whatever I was supposed to.

Luckily it's Peeta who asks me. "Did you write about the effect airplanes had on World War 1?"

"I didn't. See, I forgot and I was pretty busy yesterday…" my sentence trails off and I become very interested in the scratches on the tiles.

"Oh, don't worry about it. To be quite honest, I didn't write about the impact the war had on the U.S. I was busy also. Apparently most people order wedding cakes in September," as he says this I realize I'm not the only one who works nowadays. Peeta is probably busy helping run the bakery.

"What are we going to do for the remaining forty minutes?" I inquire.

"I say we play a game," he says. A game? What is he thinking? We have a good forty-five minutes to get something done and he suggests playing a game? What are we, kindergarteners?

"A game?" I say incredulously.

"Yes. Want to play Pictionary?"

"What's Pictionary," I question, never hearing such a term before.

"You've never heard of Pictionary? Come on, it's a classic," he says. Peeta smiles as if I just said the silliest thing in the world.

"No, I haven't," I reply. Is he mocking me?

"You have to guess what the other person is drawing. It's really easy," he says.

"Yeah? And what about for people who can't draw for their life, like me?" I ask.

He laughs, and I so want to wipe the smile off his face. "Anyone can play. Alright, I'll start"

Infuriated and upset at the amount of ridicule I am receiving, I decide that it's best to just go along with Peeta's idea. At least then he'll stop pegging me with worse ideas.

He starts drawing, and I see a line, then two. "Is it a car?"

"Nope" he answers. I lean over him to see a bit better, and realize that there are now feathery things coming from the two lines. "Is it a tree?"

"You got it," he says. "Okay, I need to make mine harder next time. You go now," he announces, handing me a piece of paper and a pencil.

I consider backing out, saying that I can't, that I stink at drawing, but I grudgingly accept the paper. "Go"

Deciding on drawing a cat, I draw a tube for it's tail. "A pencil. No wait, a…a train! Hmmm…lipstick?" he questions. Each guess comes in rapid-fire succession and I wonder that if this is what gets Peeta excited, playing Pictionary, what caffeine would do to him.

However, each guess is wrong and I get fed up with my mangled up version of a cat. "Forget it," I say frustratingly. "Forget it! I told you I can't draw for my life, and I can't even get you to guess what cat is! I shouldn't have even played," I say.

I sit sulkily, arms crossed, staring at my failure. "Katniss, it's just a game. It's supposed to be** fun**"

"Yeah, well I'm not having fun right now," I mutter.

"You have to learn to have fun sometime," he says.

"I do know how to have fun!" I exclaim.

"No, you don't," he replies. Just as I'm about to retort back, the bell rings. The bell. Always cutting off what I have to say.

I give him a scathing glare, and stalk out of the room. _I don't know how to have fun? What is Peeta playing at? Can't he just return to his little hole and do this project without me?_ _And then Pictionary? Who does he think he is?_

While walking back to homeroom I think of every insult I can give to that boy. That boy who exasperates me so.

I only come back to my senses when Prim asks me a question on the ride home. "Katniss, what do you think about my essay?" she exclaims.

"Hmm…Oh, it's very good," I say.

"Are you alright? You've been very out of it this afternoon," she notices. Prim, being the aspiring doctor she is, observes small details like this. Although this probably isn't considered a small detail.

"Yes. I'm a bit tired." This is true, but my main reason of my "being out of it" is the boy who I've spent minutes, no, hours, coming up with reasons why I hate him so much.

As I walk up the steps, I think back to when I last got money from Haymitch. With a startling jolt, I realize that I should've gone yesterday. The trip to Haymitch's house always calls for yelling, and sometimes, a few empty threats.

Since Haymitch lives at the other end of town, rotting away in riches, it's a pretty long walk from my house. The streets grow dark and a small sense of apprehension grows in the air. I brush it off quickly, as in all of my years of walking here I never have had any trouble.

Finally, I see it. Overgrown grass, peeling paint, windows so dusty one shouldn't even try to see through them. I try to remember a time when it was the way it previously was, with fresh paint, cut grass, and clean windows, but no image comes to my mind.

Stepping over what looks like a rusty watering can, I open the door with a "creeeeekkk". "Haymitch!" I yell.

"Haymitch?" I look around for him but all I can see is soiled clothes and random objects, such as a spice shaker. Who has spice shakers on the floor? Haymitch does.

"I'm over here, sweetheart," a raspy voice says.

"Sweetheart" has been a term of ironic endearment to me for as long as I can recall. A drunk, unkempt man suddenly is noticeable, lying on a recliner.

"I bet you needed some money and went crying to Uncle Haymitch, huh?" he mocks. Haymitch isn't really my uncle, but he might as well be because all I know is that he's my last living relative besides Prim and my mother. He takes a bottle of some mystery drink and chugs it down his throat.

"Or maybe you actually wanted to check up on me. Do a little volunteer work, for once."

"I didn't come to check up on you. I came for money, as usual," I say with as much dignity as I can muster.

He lets out a big guffaw, and then belches for effect. "Always asking me for money, huh? Well I got some big news for you, sweetheart. I haven't gotten paid in years!" he claims while letting another humorless laugh escape him. It seems as though all of the blood has rushed out of my face. Haymitch hasn't gotten paid in years? Then that means…that means…I refuse to even consider the thought.

"Then how have you been buying all this liquor?" I say.

"Oh, this old stuff? I've been using some of the left over money I have." I pause for a minute, letting this all sink it. Haymitch has to be lying. He has to be.

"Well I'm sure you can get together at least some money for me to take."

"Ah, let me see," he replies while looking through his dump heap. "Here ya go. Twenty dollars and fifty cents. You see how nice I am? I gave you an added fifty cents," he says. Is he joking? Twenty dollars and fifty cents buys you absolutely nothing. I need at least enough to pay for the month.

"I'm not walking away with twenty dollars," I say forcefully.

"Of course you aren't. You're walking away with twenty dollars and fifty cents," he answers.

"I don't care about the fifty cents!" I snap. "Haymitch, please, just give me a few hundred dollars," I plead.

"Ooohh..Looks like someone's getting their feathers ruffled."

"Haymitch!" I yell.

"All right, all right. I'll give you, oh, fifty bucks."

"More"

We go on for this for a while, me telling him that we need more money, him retorting that he doesn't have that much. It's worth it when I walk home with about eight hundred dollars.

By the time I get home the air has chilled and I'm shivering from the cold air. I see a bowl of broth and I silently thank my mother for preparing dinner for me. She's most likely asleep now, it being almost twelve o'clock now.

My pile of homework has somewhat decreased since yesterday, although I did finish my writing assignment. A vague memory of Pictionary comes to my mind and I remember to type the paper for our project, researching on our slow and old computer. It's a real pain, waiting a few minutes until a page loads. I mostly research things in my textbook to save me from the long wait.

At last I reach my lovely bed, so tempting and wonderful. As my head hits the pillow I ponder it all: the game of Pictionary, Haymitch's warnings, and lastly the delicious feeling of floating away into a deep submersion where I sleep peacefully until my alarm clock cries.

**I would like to thank LeLa London for always reviewing. It really means a lot to me and I get a rush of happiness when ever I see that you reviewed. I also would like to thank anyone who story alerted this. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Gale will most likely appear in the next one.**


	5. Chapter 5

The days pass quickly, twirling around, making my body exhausted by the burden of work. With each passing day comes another heavier burden, another worry that adds to my growing list.

Haymitch's words echoed in my head, making it hard to concentrate, do anything really. 'I haven't gotten paid it years!' he said. But was he lying? Or was he really telling me the truth? Haymitch is a mystery I'm not even sure I want to figure out.

It was finally my anxiety that prompted me to find another job, despite all of the work that constantly creeps up on me. I spent the last few days searching for well paid work, and finally found an older lady who needed someone to clean her house for ten dollars an hour. Not being able to find anything else and sick of searching, I decided to work for her.

I stand, fidgety and nervous, on her front steps. The grass and roots has snuck up upon the sidewalk, leaving cracks everywhere. Her house is a faded blue, with white shutters. It almost looks like one of those old houses in magazines, except aged by weather and other various causes. By looking at the parched, long grass I can tell that perhaps she hasn't done yard work in a while.

Concluding that it would be best to gather up my courage all at once, I brace myself and ring the doorbell. A dimmed ring reverberates back to me, and I silently wait.

An elderly, tiny woman answers the door, wearing a weathered flowery dress. Wrinkles and saggy skin envelop her face and I ponder what she looked like before age overtook her features. A small amount of white hair, once brown, covers her head. I peer into dull brown eyes that must have once shinned. "Oh! Albert! I've been waiting for you to get home. Come in," she says, pointing to the inside of her house.

Albert? Who is Albert? Suddenly something clicks in my head. This woman is most likely a widow, living alone. She must have confused me with her husband. Impulsively I open my mouth to snap back something rude, for I look nothing like her husband, but the caring part of me holds back. This lady is confused and it's not her fault for not recognizing me.

"No. No, it's not Albert. It's Katniss, remember? I called you yesterday. You said you needed someone to clean your house." I pray she remembers, because if not I'll go back defeated, without this extra job.

Two and two connect and she suddenly remembers me. "Yes. Katniss, would you like to join me for a bit of tea?" she asks. There is such hopefulness in her eyes I can't say no. If I want to get paid, I better do whatever she wants.

"Okay. Thank you Mrs.…" I suddenly realize I have no idea what her name is.

"You can just call me Addie, dearie." I cautiously step inside, smelling dust and lemon cleaner. _Well someone cleaned here. But how long ago?_

Looking around, I see various knickknacks lying in every possible place, on every shelf, table, every nook and cranny. I sigh, wondering if I have to clean through all that.

An odd collection of porcelain dolls adorn a dust covered table. Their eyes seem to glare into me, asking me why I trespassed and who I am.

Addie grabs a tea kettle and turns on the stove. Clearing my throat, I wonder what I'll do for these agonizing minutes drinking tea with her. Will she expect me to talk? What if her tea is poisonous? I clear that thought out of my head, knowing that an employer wouldn't poison their employee. But this is a woman who confused me for her husband.

With that reassuring thought, she plops down on to a wooden chair. "Would you like a cookie?" she questions politely.

"No thank you," I say, thinking that if she really wanted to poison me, I should stay away from solids. Then again, poison could be easily held in a liquid. _  
_

"Are you sure?"

"My mother will be upset that I ate before dinner," I lie.

"Of course," she says. Her eyes look directly at mine and I feel slightly uncomfortable. Thankfully she glances at the cat place mats.

"Do you have a cat?" I say. A smile immediately appears on her face, and I sigh happily inside, knowing that I picked a topic she could talk about forever.

"Tibbs. He was my best friend but-" The smile immediately disappears off her face and dread fills me, guilts me. Tibbs is dead, and I just reminded her of a horrible time in her life. _This is why you don't socialize, Katniss._

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind-" I start to say but she interrupts.

"Don't be sorry," she says hastily, wiping away a tear.

Silence fills the air and is only disrupted by the shrill cry of the kettle. Immediately Addie stands up and pours the boiling water into two cat cups. Tea bags are then added in, coloring the water a bright orange. Bile threatens to come up just at the thought of drinking the tea.

"Here you go, dearie. My favorite flavor. I hope you like it" I politely take the steaming mug, pretending to sip. Addie takes a big swig despite the burn and smiles in contentment.

"Like it?"

"Uh-huh" I fib and then give a fake smile. She shakes her head a points to the large amount of liquid in my mug.

"Now, now. Don't take pity the old lady. You're free to drink the whole thing," she says. Nodding and taking another guzzle, she adds "It will get cold."

Knowing that if I'm to please her and get paid, I take an extremely small sip. I choke on the extremely bitter taste; it's as if I took a drink of purified wood. I force myself to smile, and blink away the water in my eyes in response to the scalding temperature.

"Good, right?" she inquires.

"Yes, it tastes very good"

"Would you like any more?" she asks seriously. My eyes widen in fear of what I might have to do.

"No, no" I say while shaking my head. I definitely do NOT need more of that purified wood drink. We sip our tea and I glance at the clock, thinking I should start cleaning soon.

"You should start cleaning now, no? I'm sorry, I just haven't had company in a while," she mumbles the last part of her sentence and I feel sudden pity for this woman I barely know. What must it be like, living alone with nothing but your porcelain dolls and your cat placemats to keep you company? Will that be me? I never wanted marriage and kids and after Prim marries and my mom dies…I suddenly realize how much Addie and I might have in common someday.

"Yes. Where would you like me to start?" I ask.

"Why don't you dust that shelf?" She points to a cluttered shelf. Addie retrieves an old duster from one of her many cabinets and hands it to me. I feel like an apprentice, just learning the skills. There are hundreds of little cat sculptures, pictures, and things I can't even name filling the shelf. Taking each knickknack and carefully placing it down upon the musty carpet, I dust off the shelf.

The amount of dust upon the shelf is unbelievable and I clear all of it away but it leaves gray particles on the carpet. I figure I'll have to clean the carpet later.

After wiping the dust off of her ornaments, I am finally finished. Thanking her, I receive thirty dollars, even though she paid me ten dollars for the hour spent drinking her tea. I figure it's pretty reasonable, considering the taste of the tea.

Walking back, I contemplate Addie, and what exactly happened to her. Did she have children? Does she take care of herself? Abruptly, I am overcome with an urge to care for this woman, to make sure she eats and is well. Of course, the idea is incredulous.

The bright neon lights that spell out _Savvy Shop_ brings me to my senses.

I search for Gale; he usually works at this time. I spot him, helping a new employee, a pretty girl of about sixteen. A feeling I can't quite name flares up inside me and suddenly I want the girl to leave, for another experienced worker to help her.

I've learned in the year I've work here that there are three types of customers who come here: the young teenager picking up a few things, completely oblivious to what goes on, the harried mother who hands me various coupons for diapers and then later on snacks, and the older person who insists on buying the strangest of products. Tonight I see all three, although admittedly there are less of the teenager category today.

Gale offers to walk me home, as he usually does and I can't help but notice that there is something different between us today. "Have fun at your new job?" Gale asks. I laugh, remembering Addie and her tea.

"If you call drinking poisonous tea fun," I say.

"Poisonous tea? This better be good."

"Well in my head it was poisonous. I don't think it actually was. It tasted disgusting, though" I reply.

"Worse than your cupcakes?" he jokes. Once I tried making cupcakes for Gale's birthday, but I mixed up the flour for sugar. They tasted horrible and Gale still holds me to it.

"Oh stop! I told you that I mixed up flour with sugar," I exclaim.

"Flour and sugar. Okay, you see, they begin with two different letters. How could you of gotten them mixed up?"

"I dunno! I did, Gale. I'm much better now," I exclaim.

"I'm not so sure about that," he says. I don't notice that we've passed my house until I see the big streetlamp that indicates the end of the street. We retrace our steps, making sure we don't pass it again.

"See you tomorrow," Gale says.

"Bye," I reply. As I collapse onto my mattress, I, for once, look forward to what tomorrow will bring.

**Feedback is appreciated! Are you liking this story so far? Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

The sunlight streams into my window, creating yellow stripes on my green blanket. I wake up with a start, realizing that today is Sunday, the day Gale and I go to the woods. Grabbing some food to make sandwiches and putting it in a bag, I head out the door, saying goodbye to Prim. I follow the same route I've went ever since I was a little girl, carefully avoiding any large branches. At last I see it big and tall, textured but engraved with various couples' names: the Hanging Tree. After carefully gazing at Mellie + Jed= in love forever, I hear a voice come out of nowhere. "It's been here a long time," Gale says. I jump, wondering how he manages to walk through the woods so soundlessly.

"Gale," I say.

"Sorry I was late. I was held up," he explains.

"That's okay," I respond, prodding the clump of grass by my feet. There is nothing for either of us to say to each other today, but unlike before when it was comfortable, now it's a cumbersome silence.

"Come on," Gale says suddenly, grabbing my arm. His face breaks into a huge grin.

"What?" I ask.

"Race me to the river," he says and not even a second after he takes off running.

"That's not fair," I yell, trying to catch up. Being one of the fastest girls in my class and Gale being heavier then me, we soon are neck and neck. I run harder, faster letting everything disappear except my feet crashing onto the ground and my heavy breathing.

"I beat you," I say, now catching my breath.

"I can't believe it. I even got a head start and everything," he says morosely.

"I'm fast," I say simply.

"Let's walk down the river," he suggests. The river swirls and dances down, gliding over rocks, creating green moss. Looking down at my feet, I notice my old sneakers, not exactly the best footwear for walking in the river.

"Sure," I answer, despite the fact that my shoes which will most likely become filled with water and uncomfortable. I never really cared about my sneakers in the first place. We walk a midst the rocks, climbing over them like real adventurers. I pathetically attempt to catch fish, using the old "catch it with your hands" technique.

"I'll teach you," Gale offers.

"You know how to catch fish using your hands?" I ask.

"Sure. It seems easy enough"

"Oh yeah, 'it seems easy enough'. I can't do it," I insist.

"Just because you can't do it doesn't mean I can't."

"Okay, Gale. Show me your awesome fish catching skills," I say sarcastically.

"I will," he says confidently.

Gale stands legs apart and hands open, ready to catch fish. I stand back to avoid whatever effects of this bizarre technique will have. An unsuspecting fish swims into view and suddenly splash! Gale dives into the water, splashing water all over me and then surfaces soaking wet.

"Gale!"

"What?" he asks.

"Did you think I wanted to come home all wet? I have to go to work after!" I exclaim.

"No. I thought you wanted to come home soaked," he says while splashing a small area that was saved from the watery splash. Glaring, I splash him in the face. Soon it's an all-out splashing war. I'm blinded by the water Gale just dumped on me and I push a load of water onto him. By the time we're finished, we are both soaked to the bone.

"You will pay for this," I threaten.

"For what?"

"For getting me wet, idiot," I say, walking ahead of him.

"Here's the fish."

"What?" I ask. In my anger I forgot all about Gale's claim that he was an amazing fish catcher. Gale shows me a small striped brown fish in his hand.

"You did not!"

"Of course I didn't catch it, Katniss. I went to the random fish store in the woods and bought it," he says.

"How did you do it?" I ask in amazement.

"I used my awesome fish catching skills," he declares. I smirk, looking at the little fish, so significant in Gale's head.

We come to a small waterfall, with water heavily splashing down. I stand under it, letting it purify my body, wiping away all of my cares. Gale and I don't speak until we sit down on a rock near the waterfall, listening to the birds chirping and the rushing sound of the waterfall.

"I love it here. If it weren't for you I would've never entered this place," he says quietly.

"Come on. Gale? The one who single-handedly kept his family alive? Scared of the woods? I don't believe it," I tease.

"No, it's just that before I believed all of the talk about it. The ghost stuff, it being cursed. I would never think that it would be so…magical" he says.

It's quiet until Gale adds, "Thank you for showing me this place so long ago." I'm taken aback by this show of gratitude; Gale has never been one to say thank you.

"Your welcome. Thanks for giving me someone to share it with," I say sly.

"Who?" he wonders.

"You," I say and he smiles.

"Want something to eat?" I ask. I open the paper bag I packed earlier and see soggy bread and wet sandwich meat.

"Enjoy soggy sandwiches?"

"Oh, I love them," he answers. I take the bread and meat, assembling a sandwich, and hand it to him.

"There. It looks good now," I say.

He takes a sniff and says, "Eugh! It smells like fish" He shakes his head to perhaps get rid of the smell that invaded his nostrils.

"You're the one who got it all wet! I dare you to eat it," I say, challenging him.

"Why don't you eat it, Katniss?"

"Me?" I ask, offended by his suggestion.

"Yes. You were the one who brought the sandwiches. Therefore, you should eat at least a bite," he says.

"No! You got it wet, so **you** should eat it," I insist.

"You really want me to? Okay, I'll do it" He braces himself and bites. Instead of the face of disgust I expect, his face brightens.

"And?" I ask.

"It's great! Have some," he offers, holding out the sandwich on his hand.

"I'm good."

"No, it tastes great. You have to have some," he says.

Wanting for Gale to stop pestering me, I take a bite. Immediately the taste of dead fish enters my mouth and I choke. I see Gale trying to hold back his smile and immediately know his reaction was just a ruse to get me to eat it.

"You lied!" I exclaim.

"I told you it tastes great!" He stops trying to suppress his smile and I see his glinting teeth and gleeful face.

I shake my head and say, "You know, Gale, I thought you were getting too old for this stuff"

"What stuff?"

"Racing me to the river, splashing me, making me eat soggy sandwiches..."

"It was a bite. Not even a whole sandwich," he says, ignoring the beginning half of my sentence.

"Okay, a bite of a sandwich. The point is: when are you going to grow up?" I have no idea why the sentence flew out of my mouth. All I know is the confused and pained expression on Gale's face.

"Me? Grow up? Who's the one who dared me to eat it? Who's the one who splashed me back, ran with me to the river and flaunted her victory? The one who challenged me to catch a fish? I'm not the one who needs to grow up, Katniss, you're the one." Each word stings me but then instantly gives me a desire to inject all of the stingers back into the person who put them there.

"I was the one working two jobs to support her family, the one who always manage to do all of her homework, and whatever else she needed to do. She was the one taking care of Prim when their was no one else to. And you have the nerve to say that I need to grow up?" I yell.

"Yes! I do, Katniss. Haven't you ever thought that I might have feelings for you?" At this my anger recedes and Gale's words stop my angry reply.

"What?" I whisper.

"I love you, Katniss." he breathes. _He loves me?_ At this my feet work faster than my mouth and I'm running, far, far away. Away from Gale's love, from promises and decisions. From ever committing myself to anyone. I finally reach my bedroom and begin to cry.

Why would Gale say that? Especially when I've made it clear that I never want marriage or kids. Why? These words reverberate in my head over and over again until I collapse, tired by all of my emotions, and sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

When I woke up yesterday, the world seemed disjointed and the memories of what happened a few hours ago came racing back to me. Gale's confession. Since then, I have been successfully avoiding him, never entering the woods, leaving work early so he doesn't walk me home. Luckily I awakened before I could miss work at _Savvy Shop_. Today, Monday, I face a challenge all its own: working for Addie again.

As before, I stand on her broken stepping stone, wondering if I have to ring the door bell. Fortunately for me, I see Addie hobbling to the window to see who it is. With a turn, she opens the knob and smiles at my presence. I really must be the only company she gets. "Ah, Katniss. How are you, dearie?" she asks. I am thrown off by her warm questioning to my well being. Thank goodness she remembered who I am this time.

"I am good, thank you" I reply. The smell of perhaps another invention or poison of hers comes wafting through the kitchen.

"You came just in time. I made brownies especially for you," Addie says. _Another thing for me to eat?_

"Oh, you didn't have to make them for me. I work for you," I reply.

"Yes, I know. But one must never work on an empty stomach." I've suddenly gather a clearer picture of who Addie is: a hospitable person who relies on the tried and true to please her workers. I sit, looking at the placemat kittens, perfect and furry. Addie offers me a drink, but, to her disappointment, I refuse.

The brownie offers me no sympathy, no solace on what I will have to achieve. I simply couldn't say no to Addie, who so kindly made these just for me. Biting one, I suddenly taste salt, biting and forcing me to drink anything. Unluckily she presents the horrible orange tea. Wanting to get this awful taste out of my mouth, I instead replace it with the bitter flavor of the tea. Quickly, I eat in a series of rounds: bite, drink, wait, bite, drink, wait, until all of my drink and "dessert" is gone.

"I simply can't decline a brownie," Addie says in defense of her empty plate, where a load of brownies just abided. _How could she eat all of them? Perhaps she lost her taste buds._

"What would you like me to work on now?" I ask, looking around at the other mounds of hours of work I have yet to accomplish.

"I know I should ask this later, when you are almost done cleaning everything-" _When will that ever be, I think._

"But my porcelain dolls really need to be spruced up." She says. Those things. They stare creepily, eyes dead but still alive. I wouldn't touch them with a ten foot pole but this is my work, after all. Addie gives me a handful of products to "spruce them up". Cleaners so old they were probably made before I was born, little brushes used for who knows what, glue to piece together any cracks.

Holding a particular one dressed in fortune teller clothes, I glue a few shards of her feet back together. I inwardly shudder, speculating as to what curse this doll will give me one day. Maybe she'll give me one for simply touching her. _It's not my preference either, darling _I think.

An hour later while cleaning another doll that looks like a painter a faded memory of Pictionary comes into my head and I suddenly think of Peeta and-Peeta! I promised him that today I would work on the airplane with him today. Even though my hours aren't up, I promised Peeta.

"Addie?" My voice breaks the silence and I'm suddenly fearful of what she might say. _Addie won't care, will she?_

"Yes?" she asks.

I bow my head in shame of what I have to say. "I promised a-" I pause, wondering what Peeta is in relation to me. Is he a friend?

"A classmate I would help him with a project. I'm sorry but I have to leave early," I say.

"A boy, eh? Is he your boyfriend? That's the reason you can't miss it?" Addie asks. Despite myself, my cheeks grow red at the thought of Peeta being my boyfriend.

"No. We simply go to the same school."

"Alright. Don't worry; I'll give you the same amount of money-"

"But" I protest. "No. You've worked hard," she says firmly. She hands me money and it's all I can to do walk out of her house with at least some of my dignity left.

I walk briskly, running at times, till the gray houses of the poor turn into the colorful houses of the rich. I suddenly freak out, remembering that I left the paper with Peeta's address in my U.S. History book, but then I remember our meeting. How I could never forget that house.

Apprehension overtakes me when I reach his doorstep and I wonder what I will say. Will his witch of a mother be there?

Gathering up all of my bravery, I ring the doorbell. I wait for one ring, two. When the third ring comes, I see a stocky figure come to the door. Peeta. I sigh in relief that his mother didn't answer. He opens the door in surprise. "Katniss. Come in," he says, gesturing to his house. My eyes widen as I see it. The floor is a dark brown, the ceiling tall, and there is a spiral staircase. I haven't seen one of them in person, only in those fancy home and garden magazines my mother sometimes gets for free. Walking in slowly, I see how spot-free everything is. How often is this big house cleaned? I think of mine, how it only gets cleaned if one is tripping over clothes or other appliances.

A fleeting image comes into my head and I ask hurriedly, "Is your mother here?"

"No. Everyone is at the bakery now. This is my off shift," he replies. Of course Peeta would make sure no one else was here when I came over. I can vividly imagine Peeta's mother's reaction is she saw me here.

"Sorry I'm late. Work and all. How much work do you need me to finish on the airplane?"

"I'm not sure if you got the email, but we're supposed to be the first to go. I didn't think you were going to show, so I finished it," he says. My stomach drops. The project is finished and I can't work on the airplane. I thought possibly I could repay Peeta in this small way, by pulling my share. But I haven't and I can never repay him.

"Sorry," I say in a small voice.

"Don't worry about it. You've done more than enough for it, anyway." I know he's lying. Peeta was the leader, the one giving instructions, doing the most work.

"Want to see it?" I nod, and we head up the spiral staircase. My eyes are constantly going up and up, trying to glimpse the top of the never ending flight of steps.

"My parents for some reason liked this idea, having millions of steps. A stairway to heaven. For them, it's just an excuse for us to get exhausted before bed so we're not waking everyone up at night."

At last we reach his bedroom. I'm frightened at what lies beyond that door. I feel like I'm somehow entering his personal space, a space that shouldn't be touched by anyone except him and his close friends. Which I'm certainly not one of. Instead I see surprisingly blank walls, a plain bed sheet. If this room had a name it would be named "plain".

"Here it is," he says a bit bashfully, as if ashamed of his work. I take one glance and then back up.

"Whoa," I say. My mouth has gone dry, looking at an almost exact replica of what airplanes looked like in that time period.

"You did that?" I ask in disbelief.

"Yeah. It took a while. I spent forever looking up pictures and making the sticks stable to hold up the top. They just wouldn't stay on." Guilt fills me at the thought of Peeta working on this for hours and me not helping at all.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't help," I say.

"Katniss, I don't blame you. You have your family to support and I?" He looks around at his wealth in disgust.

"I don't have anyone. I probably have much more time than you. I completely understand." My eyebrows knit together, trying to understand this mysterious person.

"But I can never repay you. I thought putting my fair share could help repay you. Instead I show up late and do nothing," I say bitterly.

"Repay me for what?" he asks. Then knowingness comes into his face and I know he remembers that day as well as I do.

"The bread? Katniss," he laughs.

"You don't need to repay me for that. Weren't you just my partner in this project?"

"You don't understand how much that bread, that offering meant to me. It gave me hope." I wonder why I'm sharing this all of a sudden, but by some means it feels right.

"Well if you are so keen on repaying me, even though you don't need to, I do need some help with something."

"With the project?" I ask.

"No," he says. Thinking back to my mother and Prim, I know that I need to go home soon. I'm supposed to be working on the project that is now finished. However, another more pressing problem comes into focus: repaying Peeta. And now I can finally do it, once and for all. By helping him with whatever it is he needs help with.

"Then what?"

"My brother's birthday is today. I'm making him a cake and I need help decorating it. I have it at home since he would know right away if it was at the bakery. Could you help me?"

My previous thoughts of repaying him sink away at this suggestion. Decorate a cake? That's like asking me for help drawing something. I simply stink at it. But the look on Peeta's face is so hopeful and the prospect of partially repaying him allures me to the extent that I say yes.

The effect is immediate, the only way I could describe his expression was pure joy. He bounds down the steps, and I follow him. "I can only do this when my parents aren't home," he explains.

When we reach the main level, Peeta tells me he needs to get something. "Stay here. No, wait. Come with me," he says.

Curiously, I tiptoe behind him, making sure not to make noise in the still house. After making various turns, I see an unmarked white door. The second he opens the door wide my breath is taken away.

All around me lays artwork, on the walls, on the ground. Each different, some of dogs, others of nature. As I turn to the left every painting gets increasingly better and more skilled.

"I told you, I have more time than you probably do. I hang out here during my off shift."

"How long did it take you to do all of this?" I wonder.

"I've been painting for a long time. Hard to say, really." He seems to come out of his trance and grabs a piece of paper with sketches on it. When we reach his spotless kitchen, he grabs instruments of all shapes and sizes and sets them upon the table. Nameless things that only Peeta could know of.

"Why is all of this stuff here? Shouldn't it all be at the bakery?"

"Oh, well I slowly took the things I needed. They wouldn't notice unless a bunch of stuff went missing at once," he says with a hint of shame in his voice.

"Where's the cake, then?" I ask. Peeta laughs, most likely remembering the odd place he hid it.

"There's the oldest refrigerator in the basement. Leme go get it. You honestly don't want to go down there. I still get creeped out by that place," he says. I sit on one of the stools, swirling round on it until Peeta comes back, bearing a snowy white three tier cake.

"Don't tell me you baked that in the basement," I say.

He smiles and responds, "Nah. You'd be surprised how much my parents miss if you're clean." I am suddenly struck by how lackadaisical his parents are. Maybe it was that Peeta was the last child, but it definitely seems that he never got much attention.

Smoothing out the sketch paper, he tells me his plan. "See we're gonna put icing here, little circles here..." My head is spinning, trying to work out Peeta's plans. "You get it?" he finally asks.

"Yes? I don't really understand, Peeta. Just tell me what to do."

"Just start cutting circles." He hands me what looks like play dough, except harder and a knife. I stare at it, expecting it to give me instructions on how to work it. Unfortunately it does nothing.

Eventually I give up and instead watch Peeta. Usually his face bears an easygoing look. However when he concentrates, it is completely the opposite. His brows knit in concentration; his tongue juts out slightly, and his eyes are blue steel. He suddenly looks up at my progress and I glance away, as if I was staring at him. Which perhaps I actually was.

"How're those circles working out for you?" he asks. I look at my "circles" and see a jagged and fat ball. So much for trying to help.

"I stink at this," I say hopelessly.

"Not at all. It took me years to be able to cover cake with fondant," he replies reassuringly.

"What's fondant?"

"Never mind," he answers. He takes the stuff and molds it as if it was smooth and fluid. Which is anything but the consistency I worked with.

"Here," he says, patting it down upon the table. "It should be easier to work with now."

I stand carving circles, and I'll admit it is a lot easier. After making fifteen large ones Peeta hands me a different color of the hard play dough.

"It looks great. We're gonna make eighteens out of the blue fondant. I have a few number cutters."

I try rolling out the fondant by myself but I give up, frustrated. "I can't do this," I say.

Sitting back defeated, I sulk at my failure. What was I thinking, trying to repay Peeta in this way? I can in no way, shape, or form help him.

He stands behind me and, with my hands guiding the roller, we smooth out the so-called fondant. At first I am squeamish at the thought of his arms being so close to me, but I soon relax and fall into the rhythm of the thump, thump as the roller clears out the fondant.

"Here's the one and the eight," he says, giving me what looks like cookie cutters.

Pushing down hard and precise, I make perfect eighteens. _Finally, something I'm good at._

Peeta sticks the circles and eighteens together. We then proceed to add them on the cake. He also puts the smaller ones he made on also. Looking at the sketch he frowns.

"I want to put something special on the top, but I don't know what. Any ideas?" He looks at me for an answer.

"Why are you asking me? I'm the one who's supposed to help you."

"I've got it. A giant cupcake."

"A cupcake?" I ask incredulously. _Why would an eighteen year old boy would want a giant cupcake on his cake? Just get a cupcake for goodness sake!_

"That's his favorite dessert. He used to sneak them all the time. He would like it."

"Okay," I say skeptically.

"I hope we have something I can use in here," he says, peering around in his refrigerator.

"Aha. We could use this." He holds up a huge piece of cake.

"Why do you just have cake lying around in your fridge?" I ask.

"If we have too much we just bring it home. My mother hates throwing things away." His life, so different from mine, where food comes to him everyday, sometimes more than needed, whereas in mine food comes just enough and when absolutely needed.

Peeta gets to work on carving the cake. When he's done it actually looks like a cupcake.

"Wanna frost?" He grabs a smooth knife and a tub of icing as if they're his weapons.

"Is this a competition?"

"Yes. Whoever does their side the quickest and nicest wins."

"I'm not making any promises," I say mischievously.

"Alright. There's one rule."

"What?"

"The cupcake can't be eaten," he says seriously.

"What? I'm not going to eat it!" I exclaim.

"You never know. I once had one with my brothers and…let me just say the kitchen was a mess."

On the count of three we begin, Peeta expertly applying icing, me spraying the brown icing everywhere. Furious and wild my knife goes.

"Done!" I scream with glee. Then I look at Peeta, who finished a second later than me. He looks at my side and his eyebrows go up.

"Katniss…what did you do?" My smile immediately vanishes. I look more closely at my side and then compare it to Peeta's. Mine has chunks of cake fallen off and icing on the table. Peeta's side is perfectly smooth.

Clearing my throat I say, "Well you challenged me to it." He groans and starts trying to cover the pieces of icing my fierce knife slashed off. I closely examine my hands and shirt and see that icing has covered them too.

"Go clean up, Katniss. I need to fix this." Why was Peeta always the one fixing things for me? Why couldn't I, for once, give back?

When I return, freshly scrubbed off, I see that the cup cake is beautiful once more. Peeta sprinkled it and skewers a long stick into it and then puts it on the cake. He stands back and smiles. Even I can't look away from the project we've put hours into. On top rests a beautiful cupcake and between the tiers lies icing. Even my eighteens and circles look nice.

"What do you think? Worth the trouble?" Peeta asks me.

"Definitely," I respond. I may not be the most gifted cake decorator, but I know a good one when I see it. Next come the arduous task of cleaning. Sponges, soap, you name it, we used it. Soon the kitchen is as spotless as it was before. Peeta goes back down to the basement to hide the cake.

Looking around I see how dark it is. Prim and my mother. They're most likely worried out of their minds about me, I said I would be back hours ago.

I see Peeta climbing up the stairs and I say nervously, "I need to go now. My mother and Prim-"

"Don't worry," he interrupts. "I can drive you home."

"But Peeta! You aren't old enough to have a license. Plus two minors in a car? We could get in major trouble for that."

"Police don't come around here at night. They are too busy with the town right next to ours."

"I can just walk home," I say.

"You can't see a thing out there. I wouldn't feel right letting you go out there by yourself. People like to come out at night."

"I can very well protect myself," I reply stiffly.

"Katniss, will you just let me drive you home?"

"No," I say coldly.

"Alright, then you'll spend the night here."

"No!" I protest louder.

"Then I'll just have to take you home," he responds. It infuriates me, but a small part of me knows Peeta's right. I can't see a thing, let alone know where I was going, if I were to walk home.

"Fine," I mumble. "But if we were to get caught-"

"We won't," he says. It's the second time he reassured me today.

I get into the car, finger shaking, praying that Peeta won't crash or that we won't get caught.

"Are you sure we know how to do this?"

"My father's taught me before."

"Before we go, whose car is this?"

"My father's," he responds. I inwardly curse and hope that nothing bad happens.

The car roars to life, and I hold on to the handle for dear life.

"You can do this, right?" My voice comes out as a squeak.

"Yes." Peeta backs out alright and starts heading towards the poorer part of town.

"Where do you live?" I give him my address, trying to direct him where to go.

Suddenly the flashing red and blue lights come into focus. We're dead.

**Oh, I just love cliffhangers. :) Did you enjoy?**


	8. Chapter 8

I stare at the too perfect vinyl seats, contemplating the series of events that lead me here, to this police car. Peeta was immediately taken away, in another police car, certainly facing severe charges. Being the passenger, not the driver, I was set off free. _But it was partially my fault. I agreed to let him drive me_, I plead inside.

The silent officer offers nothing, just silently sits there while he drives me home. Now, after everything that happened, I think of all the different, better scenarios that don't involve Peeta being punished. His mother probably blew a gasket when she found out. I smile slightly, but then frown when I realize the repercussions on Peeta. I picture his father, disappointed with his son, but quiet and reserved as he always his. His brothers, uncomfortable, but sympathetic for their brother.

And suddenly I wish nothing more than to re-do today, a different day in which I show up on time, help Peeta with the airplane, and walk home by myself. Wouldn't that be much better than what happened today? Why do these things happen to me? _You're Katniss Everdeen._ Of course, things must never work out for me. Something must constantly mess up.

I run my fingers through my hair, pretending today was just a dream, a once beautiful, too good to be true dream that quickly turned into a nightmare. As the officer reaches my house, he nods, signaling me to go in. Taking a deep breath I open the car door and walk to the door where behind it surely lies Prim and my mother, worried sick about me.

As soon as I open the door I hear a shriek, "Katniss!" Prim squashes me in a hug. "I was so worried you weren't going to be okay. We waited for you to get home."

"I'm okay, Prim" I reassure my sister. I see the tear stains on her cheek and suddenly feel so guilty for putting stress on young Prim.

"You must be hungry. Eat," Prim pulls my hand to a table where a bowl of soup is laid out, but my mother stops her.

"Wait. Katniss, I need an explanation first." I look into my mother's eyes and find them unfeeling, much like the times when she went away after my father died. I swallow, preparing myself.

"A..." I still come up short when trying to categorize Peeta. However, in this case it is better to present him as a friend than a classmate, which is devoid of any emotion.

"A friend drove me home," I say simply.

"A minor who doesn't own a license," she corrects. My interest suddenly shifts to my shoes.

"You need to tell me if you need to be picked up. We have a car," she says. My stomach sinks, yet another option. But I don't think would fancy our old truck anywhere near her house. Then again she wouldn't even want me to be at her house in the first place.

"This could have turned out a lot worse, but the important thing is that you tell me where you're going. I realize I haven't been there for you and Prim all of the time but I'm trying. You can trust me." _No I can't, I think_. And I never can. Not since she left Prim and me to rot to dust.

"Katniss?" she asks.

"Yes mother," I reply quietly.

At school I expect there to be a big commotion, whisperings about what happened last night, but there is none. Police like to keep things quiet, I suppose.

All throughout the day I find my eyes looking for Peeta, but he remains hidden in the crowd of students. It is only when United States history comes around that we have a conversation, if you could even call it that. More like two people apologizing. "I'm sorry," I whisper to him.

"Don't be. I was stupid enough to do it," he says while looking down at our project, once so wonderful in our eyes but now just a reminder of the error we made.

"What did they charge you with?" I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Court fees, fines, community service. Mostly time and money. What my mom was mad about was the car."

"What did they do to it?"

"They took it. I dunno when they'll give it back though. The funny thing is that we barely use it," he says.

"The hitch is that somehow I have to pay it all back. It's not like I make any money of my own. Job searching here I come," he adds humorlessly.

"_Savvy Shop_," I say instantly.

"What?" Peeta asks.

"_Savvy Shop_. It's where I work. It pays enough and it isn't too hard to be a cashier," I explain.

"Well I guess I'll check it out," he replies.

Just then is calling us, the first group to go up and present. Peeta takes the lead while I pretty much just point to particular things. We read our parts and then bring out his airplane. Which should be ours. The once lackluster audience instantly comes to life with a few "ooohhhs". I interpret the terse nod from the teacher as a mark of approval.

After class Madge comments, "That airplane was really nice. It must have taken a long time."

"I didn't do it," I say dismissively.

"Oh." Madge knows when to not ask questions. Maybe it's one of the reasons I like her so much.

On the ride home Prim is unusually quiet. "Anything wrong?" I ask her.

"I thought maybe that…after what happened yesterday…you wouldn't want me talking on the way home," Prim mumbles.

"Oh, Prim," I say, stroking her hair. I grope around for the right words.

"You're always free to talk to me about whatever. No matter what mood I'm in. Okay?"

She nods and we sit in silence, the wind blowing in our hair.

Sooner than later I leave for _Savvy Shop_, homework still left half-done. The customers today are surprisingly low-key. Not one person bought the canned pineapple that seemed to be all the rage at nine o'clock.

I have been successfully avoiding Gale since he leaked his "secret". Until today. As I'm walking to leave, he grabs my arm. "Katniss. You can't avoid me forever."

We walk outside, the dim glow of the street lights marking our path. My eyes shift to the ground and I count the cracks _1...2… _When I reach three he lifts my chin up, forcing me to make contact with his grey eyes. "I know that I shouldn't have said those things. I should have waited."

"Waited for what, Gale?"

He ignores my question and instead asks, "Do you love me?" I am flabbergasted, astounded by this question. Gale and I have always had a platonic relationship, never romantic. We were partners, friends, but lovers? Definitely not. So why does he ask this now?

"I-I..." My tongue is tied up in knots. "Why are you asking?"

I look up to him, my eyes slightly wet from my conflicting feelings. They twirl around me, creating a whirlwind of emotions. Do I love Gale? _Of course you do_, a small voice says. _But romantically?_

"Gale, you have to realize something. The one plan, the only one I ever had, was to take care of Prim and my mother. I can't think of anything else, think of anyone in a different way." I'm almost afraid to look at his face now, to see the pain etched in it.

"That didn't stop you from driving home with that boy last night," he says scathingly. It doesn't take the mean tone in which Gale said "that boy" for me figure out who he means.

"What? How do you know about that?" I snap, forgetting everything I said previously.

"Everyone who is anyone knows." So there must have been mutterings, despite my belief that there weren't any. Dread fills me. _Everyone who is anyone knows._ Does that mean I am not anyone?

"Don't-don't misunderstand what happened. We were working on a project," I explain.

"Oh, of course. A project. I'm sure that's what you were doing," he says sarcastically.

"He's barely my friend, Gale. We worked on a project. It got late. He drove me home." I omit the fact that we were cake decorating, not working on our project. It isn't an important enough detail. Silence fills again and I'm sure Gale's mind is working feverishly, trying to calculate everything.

"Can I trust you anymore?" His words echo in my head, knocking my every belief out of the sky. We were inseparable, partners who only trusted each other. And now he questions it?

"I thought we always trusted each other," I whisper.

"I don't know anymore," he says. Numbness has come over me and our good-byes are stiff.

As I sit down to do my homework I wonder what happened. How is it that a friendship so solid, so compact, could break down to the point where we can't even trust each other anymore? How is it that my best friend doubts me? What has become of us, our relationship?

While doing homework and later trying to fall asleep my thoughts are plagued by these never ending questions, all starting in "why".

**Did you enjoy? I personally felt so bad for Gale while writing this :( Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. They really mean a lot to me and it's nice to have feedback. Do you think was in character? I believe she would have been concerned about her daughter if she was drove home by the police. **


	9. Chapter 9

A week flies by, and with each day comes more stress, another factor to contend with. It is almost like I am a box, tumbling down the stairs. Each stair, in this case day, creates another bruise.

Gale and I have resumed our cool relationship and each time I see him a part of me dies, knowing the horrible state of our friendship. How could it be that a few factors could send our whole relationship crashing down? It is only when a certain someone comes to work at _Savvy Shop_ when I doubt if our friendship could ever be the same.

I see him, charges and all, enter the supermarket. Immediate shock overtakes me, and I look again to see if my eyes are deluding me.

Is he simply buying something or-no it can't be? Is he going to work here? _Well you did suggest it to him_. Then again, I never really thought he would actually take my advice. I resist the urge to smirk, imagining him, such a novice, applying to work here. One thing I learned while working here is that it's harder than it looks. The smirk I was resisting wipes right off my face as soon as the manager tells me to help him.

"What?" I ask.

"You heard right. Go help him," the manager sternly replies.

The thing about working with Peeta Mellark is that it's never easy. He's either trying to play Pictionary with me, making me have frosting wars, or forcing me to do schoolwork. Not exactly the best working buddy, eh? So when I walk over to help him, I tell him exactly that.

Instead of being upset or even mad he just laughs. "So…being a cashier. What do I do?" he asks playfully.

"It's not easy, you know. You'll find out when you have a long line with angry customers," I warn him.

"I'm sure I will. I'm not an expert like you, Katniss." Why does he complement me so?

"Okay so…" I go on to tell him what exactly everything is and how it works, from the different PLU's to what coupons are invalid to use here.

"Do you get it?" I ask him. I look up, see his perplexed expression and know that the opposite is true. He doesn't understand anything I told him.

"Sure," he answers untruthfully.

When he sees my slightly worried expression he adds, "Don't worry. I'll figure it out sooner than later."

While heading back I notice Gale's jealous stare, the way one of his eyebrows is slightly raised as if to ask "Really, Katniss? Really?" It's the first sign of any communication I've had from him all week. Glaring at him, I wonder why, why now, he decides to pay attention to me.

However as the time goes on I have to resist a laugh as Peeta somehow fails to do anything correct. First the scanner breaks, then he forgets one of the codes, and finally he drops a case of dog food on his foot. How do you do that? Lucky for me, I have to assist him if anything happens, like the incidents above. Each conversation begins with an "I'm sorry". I'm assisting him now, asking him how he could drop a case of dog food on his foot.

"I guess my hands are a bit slippery?" I reach for his hand and find that it is slick with sweat. One thing's for sure. I never had this much trouble on my first day.

"Why don't you wipe your hands off or something?" I ask him patiently, groaning at the amount of time I've spent helping him.

"I have been," Peeta says, pointing to an almost saturated towel.

"Are you nervous?" I inquire, knowing that sometimes my palms sweat when I am nervous, but never this excessively.

"A bit." It's the first time I've ever seen him nervous, or even slightly fazed.

"You'll do fine. Look at how well you're doing already," I lie.

A sound of laugher emanates from his lips and he replies, "Doing well? Katniss, I just dropped a case of dog food on my foot. I don't think that's considered doing well."

"Well then deal with it yourself. I'm sick of coming over here," I snap. The mirth that was just in Peeta's eyes fades and leaves slight concern.

"Okay. I'm sorry," he repeats for the thousandth time.

"Just forget it," I say, shaking my head as I make my way back to my station. _How come he has to always mess everything up?_ All throughout the rest of my shift I am distracted, distracted by a certain someone a few registers away. Instead for giving one man his $50 change, I instead give him $100. Fortunately he noticed. Periodically I look up and check to see if he is doing alright. It seems that just a few words of encouragement were all it took to get him on the right track.

Half way through my shift, I begin to feel so, so tired. The ceilings spin and twirl around, creating a kaleidoscope of different colors and shapes.

All of the stress put upon my body this week seems to be approaching in ten-fold. The noises are suddenly muted and I am in a bubble, a black bubble, pulling me away to a secret haven where I can rest. My eyes see black smoke, curling onto my vision, and then the bubble pulls me away, far, far away. Black.

The first thing I notice when I wake is a blue blanket covering me. Where am I? I look around to find I am at home, on my couch. How did I get here? Wasn't I just at _Savvy Shop_? I suddenly notice an ache in my head, and find a bump there.

A figure comes out from behind and I want to ask whoever it is questions, to be able to retrieve answers for my mystified mind. As the figure comes into the light I see Gale, looking worriedly at me.

"Gale, how did I get here?" I yearn to ask a million more questions, but I hold my tongue. It appears that, although past feuds, Gale has decided to help me.

"You fainted," he replies simply.

"What?" The idea of me fainting, giving into weakness like that, is so preposterous.

"I carried you home. Manager didn't pay you as much, though." Of course he did. The manager is mean, and rude. No sympathies on his part. Not that I wanted any.

"Thank you," I reply, in response to how Gale acted despite our fight. I sit up quickly, and then feel a terrible dizziness come over me.

"Don't sit up just yet. Your mother said that you should lie down for a bit, at least till the swelling goes down," Gale tells me. I have no choice but to do as he says.

"Drink this," he adds, holding a glass of some mysterious substance.

"Are you trying to poison me?" I ask skeptically.

"That would be tempting sometimes…but no." I lift the glass to my lips and a grainy substance leaks down my throat.

"Would you like me to leave now?" Gale asks. The prospect of me lying here, alone, leaves me with a sense of loneliness and I realize that I don't want him to leave at all.

"No," I reply. He sits and holds my hand while I think of something to say. What would we even say, we who have such a broken and torn friendship?

"I never thought I'd see the day when you fainted at work," Gale teases.

"Oh, shut up," I reply, rolling my eyes.

"No seriously. I wouldn't of believed it if I hadn't seen it."

"I must have looked ridiculous then," I say, picturing myself epically fainting.

"Yeah, you did," Gale says with a smile.

"Was everyone worried?" I wonder.

"Nah. They were more concerned about how you were gonna be dragged out," he replies.

"Gale!"

"What? I'm telling the truth," he says.

"No, your not."

"Well, to be completely honest, that Mellark boy was in a dither," he says, smirking. _What?_ I am so surprised that instead of hatred shown towards Peeta, he instead showed superiority.

"He went on and on about how you had to go straight home. He got fired for yelling at the manager," he explains. Now I know why Gale isn't upset about Peeta working at _Savvy Shop_. He got fired.

"What?"

"It was quite funny, actually," Gale states.

"Funny, Gale?" I ask, slightly offended for reasons oblivious to me.

"Yes. It was," he declares. I have absolutely no idea why I am mad, or even upset at Gale. But for some reason this sets me off.

"Why do you hate him so much?" I demand. There is no need to explain who "he" is.

The effect is immediate and the once joyful, kidding look in his grey eyes disappears and is replaced by a more serious look.

"I don't hate him, Katniss. I simply don't like him," he says.

"Why don't you like him, then? What did he ever do to you?" I ask, fed up by our running around in circles, trying to figure out what the other one means.

"He's taking you away from me," he whispers.

"What do you mean?" I ask in surprise, forgetting to be mad.

"You think I don't see it? The way you act around him, laugh around him."

"No, I don't see it, Gale. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that…that." He seems to be at a loss for words.

"That?" I question, prodding him on.

Gale's eyes are glued to the ground and are only unstuck when he says his next words, "That you might be in love with him."

**Did you enjoy? I still feel so bad for Gale...Thank you for the reviews!**


	10. Chapter 10

I remember once I was in the woods with my father, walking along the creek when I suddenly slipped on a mossy rock. It seemed as if in that one instant the whole entire world stopped. That's how I feel right now. I feel like the world just paused for a moment, giving me a second to absorb information.

'_That you might be in love with him.'_ Is that what Gale thinks? Is that the cause of all of his anger and frustration? Well then he's definitely wrong. The mere thought of anything romantic between Peeta and I is clearly incredulous. Or is it? I think of the times we've spent together recently. Was there any slight hint of feelings between us?

"That's a lie," I tell him forcefully.

"Didn't seem like it today."

"Didn't seem like it? Gale, I had to help him!" I shout, trying to prove him wrong.

"You didn't have to enjoy doing it," he mutters, looking at the floor.

"You think that I go to work for fun? Ha!" My ironic and mocking laugh echoes around the room.

"Who do you think I am? Some person who…who spends her time fooling around with a boy she barely knows? If you think I'm that girl, then you don't know me. I'm not even sure I know you," I say.

We stare into each others eyes, defiant, not wanting to give up our position. Finally, Gale turns around and heads out the door.

While settling down, I realize how badly my head has faired my shouting match. My throat feels scratchy and I have a pounding headache. The blanket seems hot, too hot and I rip it off.

At first I feel triumphant, happy at the fact that I have "won". But soon in its place I feel guilt, guilt so strong for turning Gale against me, the one true friend I knew I had. If I wasn't so proud, so vain, then we would have never fought. If I wouldn't have gotten so offended then perhaps we could just be the partners we were before, before any of this ever happened. Then suddenly a bigger, more direct blaming comes in: Peeta.

He's the reason for all of this. All of it. If he hadn't entered the picture, Gale and I would still be friends. I wouldn't have to deal with another person in my life. Why he was picked that day to be my partner, I have no idea. The one thing I know is that it caused a great deal of unwanted chained events to happen. Events that I honestly could live without. Events that would change my life.

My mother enters, bearing medicine and a cloth. Little Prim follows, a bit reproachful. I wonder if she heard me yelling. If that why she looks at me with fear in her blue eyes?

"Prim," I say, drawing her near, letting her know that I would never yell at her.

"Mother has some things for you to help you feel better," she quietly says.

She sets the medicine and cloth upon the table while I murmur a silent thank you. I suppose Prim decides that I am cooled down and she sits on my lap while I stroke her hair.

"Tell me a story," she says, asking like she used to when she was young. The only difference was that she asked my father, not me. I can't really substitute. Racking my brains for any happy memory, I come up a fleeting recollection: my first day of school.

"Do you want to hear about my first day of school?" I ask her. She nods, her eyes bright in anticipation.

"Well that morning I was really nervous. I had butterflies in my stomach and I couldn't eat anything."

"Just like I was my first day."

"Oh, no, Prim. I was more nervous than you," I tell her. Prim's eyebrows go up, shocked.

"I was so nervous that I hid so that I didn't have to go."

"What happened?" Prim asks excitedly.

"Father found me, obviously. He told me not to be nervous, that school would be fun."

"Did you believe him?"

"Not at first," I say, smiling and remembering that moment.

"So I walked to school holding his hand all the way. When we had to say good bye he said 'Don't worry, Katniss. I'm always with you.'" I pause for a moment, thinking of how my father could always manage to make me feel better and a lump rises in my throat.

"That morning the teacher asked us if anyone wanted to sing the valley song. I immediately thought of Father singing it to me, and right then I knew that I just had to sing it, for him. And as I sang all of my worries drifted away. After that I was no longer nervous." Looking down, I give Prim a small smile.

"Can you teach it to me?" she asks.

I haven't sung since my father died. I'm not even sure how well I can sing now, being years out of practice. But this is Prim and for some reason I can't resist any of her requests.

"It goes like this," I tell her, and sing the first chorus. Every word has been etched into my memory with my father teaching me these songs. At first my voice is scratchy, dull, but then it turns into something beautiful. Prim soon learns the tune and we sing quietly together until she slowly falls asleep.

Her blonde hair brushes my shoulder and I braid it, taking care to make sure it looks beautiful.

"Good night, little duck," I whisper, pulling the other half of my blanket over her. I stand up and stretch my muscles, sore from sitting too long. Immediately my head starts spinning and I'm forced to sit back down. I slowly make my way into the kitchen, keeping my head still in case it feels dizzy again. I find my mother in the kitchen and she asks if I feel any better.

"Yes, I do. I drank the medicine," I say.

"You won't be going to school tomorrow, Katniss."

"I have to! I've never missed a day-"

"And missing one day won't hurt," she interrupts.

"But-"

"You still have a fever and your head hurts, no?" It's pointless to correct her, my head feels like lead.

"Mother, I need to go to school. They'll give me loads more homework," I explain.

"Your health is more important than school work," mother replies, as calm and as rational as ever.

"I'd rather be doing school work than stuck at home!" I snap, slamming down upon the chair while jabbing moodily at a piece of chicken. My mother remains silent, a steel frown on her face. I know I've lost the battle when she stops speaking back. Still, I attempt to head to school after a blaring alarm clock wakes me up.

"Go to bed," my mother says, not even looking at me.

"I feel better," I tell her, trying to look healthy. It doesn't work because she soon feels my burning forehead and large bump and directs me up the stairs. I have no choice but to go.

I spend the day staring at my ceiling, counting how many times the bug flies from place to place. In all, about thirty times he goes from one spot to the next. My brief break comes when Prim enters, carrying a few of my heavy textbooks.

"Thank you, Prim." I glance down at the sheet, seeing the immense amount of work.

"How was school?" I ask.

"Okay," she answers.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks, concerned.

"Yes," I tell her, and for once it's true. Prim completely lifts my spirits. This definitely beats watching the bug.

"Are you going to be alright, here by yourself?"

"Of course I am. I managed it for seven hours before, right?" I grapple for my books inside the bag and pull out my heavy United States history book. We've moved on from the war project, Peeta and I achieving our well-earned A, and we're now on the Great Depression. A series of questions follow the lesson, and I have to "write well written, thought-out answers to all of the questions". Sooner or later, I finish most of it.

A picture of a kitty is what jolts me. Addie. I completely forgot to head over there today. Perhaps it was the whole no go to school, no go to work idea that made me forget but being sick doesn't excuse me from not going to work. I decide that tomorrow I'll work more hours to make up for the missed session.

_Beep, beep, beep_ goes the alarm clock and I'm jerked from my dreamland into a harsher, rougher reality. I think back to my dream, how I was walking peacefully in the woods surrounded by light and green. Shaking my head, I dress quickly.

I once thought that a single day changes nothing, but it turns out my thoughts were anything but truth. The most dread special starts: gym. For some odd reason, gym starts the third week of school. Perhaps it's the teacher, who loves torturing students with running and weights. She loves giving us an unreal "break" before she grinds us with different techniques on the best way to make our bodies sore. By the way she glares at me I can tell gym started yesterday.

"Everdeen. You were missing yesterday," she snarls. I gaze up at this woman, this woman I despise and want nothing more than to reciprocate the same agony on her.

"I know." It's rash, but I've never been one to think rationally.

"Looks like you're feeling a bit daring today, huh? Well I'll let you know one thing. It won't last long," she says with an evil glare in her eyes. I know I'll pay for it dearly later.

Today we're forced to run. But no, this is not normal running. This is running while attempting to dodge random buckets of water being poured down our head.

"You're going to have to run in the rain sometime. Might as well get used to it now," she says harshly, clarifying the reason why water is being poured on us. And if we complain, she'll give us a whole lecture about how back in her day they made her run while it was snowing and how we're such babies. The scars of gym teacher lecture. Oh, joy.

Geometry class offers even worse news: I failed a test we took due to my misunderstanding of the subject. During lunch Madge informs me of the other work I missed, work never written on the paper. Throughout history I avoid Peeta's eye, determined to go unnoticed by him. I still haven't forgiven him for ruining my life.

After school I walk to Addie's, determined to apologize for my forgetfulness. Ringing the doorbell, I wait as I always do, taking in the worn sidewalk. One minute...no Addie…two minutes…no Addie.

After three minutes I begin to get an uneasy feeling. Addie usually answers right away, there never is a wait. A long list of mishaps begins to form in my head. They range from Addie dying from food poisoning to her slipping on brownie mix. As I walk in I call out for her. "Addie? Addie!" My shouts become louder and louder, most likely waking up anyone within a mile radius. My shouting only stops when I find Addie. Arms folded perfectly as if asleep, lying in her is only one problem. She is dead.

**:) Did you enjoy? Please give me feedback. It could be anything, whether you're liking the story so far or whatnot. I still feel bad for Gale. :(**


	11. Chapter 11

Before I even comprehend what I see, I am scampering away from the house where dead things lie. Where the body of the women I once worked for lies peacefully.

So why am I running? If the body is peaceful, content with it's death, then why run? I know why. It's because when forced with trouble, I run. Run first and then when the issue is too pressing, when it makes me ache, I deal with it.

First it was starvation. I ran and only when the stress was too much, when it was upon me, that was when I dealt with it. If you call receiving bread from a rescuer "dealing with it".

Next Gale told me he loved me and I ran. Never pausing to think.

Now Addie's dead and I run.

Searching for a job in Fortsfield isn't easy, considering the most wanted jobs are in _Savvy Shop_. However there are…other jobs available in my town. I received a job at _Playkins_, "The most loved play place since the outdoors!", by lying and saying that I just adore kids.

In simplest terms, _Playkins_ is an indoor play place, complete with ball launchers and slides.

It was a bit of a joke when it first opened. A town like Fortsfield, old-fashioned would never have a play place, full of neon colors and plastic. Never. Nothing so current and new abides here. But when has an idea, it happens.

On opening day no one came. Town folk were afraid they would lose the very thing their town is known for: being old fashioned. However curiosity won the best of my people and slowly people began entering this strange place to find that they loved it.

Still bristly, older folk were adverted to such newness and soon a strike against_ Playkins_ emerged. Sides were taken: old Fortsfield people and new Fortsfield people. It had gotten to the point where the "sides" were clearly defined, even in school environments.

After an incident involving a spatula and peanut butter (an unlucky combination for anyone, really) everyone realized how silly the whole picking sides situation was.

The peak of the problem was and soon all fingers pointed to this one man. Nervous and twitchy with worry, remodeled _Playkins_ into something a bit more…old fashioned.

For instance, bright pink slides were replaced with wooden ones. Hi-tech ball launchers were turned into cannons, climbing areas into realistically painted trees, and cottages into classic tree houses.

The slight problem is that one might think _Playkins_ is Pirate themed. That is not the case. I personally believed that was going for a medieval theme. Nonetheless, folk ate it up like fresh pancakes on Sunday morning.

Currently I am squatting, holding a roll of "weathered" paper towel while a pile of throw-up is at my feet. Yet another kid has expelled the contents of his stomach-a gross combination of peanut butter sandwich and fruit juice- because of the mighty wrath of the wooden slide. In simpler terms, don't eat before you run around.

"Need help?" a voice calls out somewhere behind me.

"I'm fine, thank you," I say politely, bracing myself for the task. Already the sharp odor of throw-up is penetrating my nostrils.

"Are you positive?" I turn around, wondering who possibly on this planet would want to help me clean vomit. I find myself staring into the eyes of no other than the famous Peeta Mellark.

"Why are you here?" I ask, completely astonished.

"Don't I even deserve a hello?" he asks innocently. Hasn't he seen that I was totally ignoring him last week? Shouldn't he be leaving me alone? Peeta and I are nothing but classmates. Not friends, nothing more than two people who worked on a project together. So why is he acting like he is my friend?

"Why are you here," I repeat, ignoring his question. I bat them away like flies, determined to find my answer.

The smile he wore is wiped off his face, wiped by my persistence and flat tone.

"You know why." I look at him unknowingly.

"Well, thinking back to it, you weren't there. I was fired from _Savvy Shop_," he says seriously. Peeta most likely expects my eyes to widen, my eyebrows to rise but instead I give a stony nod.

He swallows and continues, "I still need money, you know. And here," he looks around the room.

"There aren't many job opportunities. _Playkins_ was my only option."

I have nothing to say so I utter a quiet, "Oh."

"There's the story, anyway. Do you need help?" he asks, getting back to the whole reason he approached me today in the first place.

"No." Peeta's disappointed, I can tell it in his eyes, downcast as they stare at the floor. Ridiculous. Offering someone to help another clean vomit just to get their attention. In fact, I have no idea what Peeta wants from me. I stand up suddenly and my legs protest from my long stance.

He turns to walk away but I stop him. "Wait." One word is all it takes form him to shift his glance into my eyes.

My tongue seems to have inactivated and it seems floppy and worthless inside my mouth.

"What…" I choose my words carefully. "What do you want from me?" As soon as I say these words I realize I have said the wrong words. Peeta freezes and is trapped by my question.

"I mean…I mean…" I'm stuttering now.

"Why are you so nice to me? Why do you treat me like a friend when I'm really not? And lastly, haven't you noticed me ignoring you?" I ask, all of my questions bundled into one long rambling rant.

"I don't want anything from you," he replies, never taking his eyes away from mine during my questioning.

"I try to be nice to everyone. And, to be completely honest, I would like to be your friend."

"I don't have time for friends!" I spit out.

"I have noticed that you've been ignoring me. When someone needs help I help them," he continues calmly, as if I just didn't yell at him a second ago. It's as though I'm a child. A child who can't understand simple matters.

"I'm not a child," I snarl, glaring defiantly at the eyes of my current greatest enemy.

"Excuse me," interrupts, "but I don't this is the place for an…" He chooses his words carefully.

"Argument?" he says, his mouth shaped into a wicked smile. My feet are frozen and a pink blush is soon spreading over my cheeks. _Stupid Stupid Stupid! _Perhaps he'll even fire me as a repercussion for my actions. Children are stationary also, staring at this spectacle.

"Go back to work you two."

"Thanks Peeta," I mutter under my breath as I bend over to clean up the stinky liquid I have failed to clean up for minutes now.

The odds don't seem to be in my favor today as another troublesome kid vomits near the cannons. Ever try using paper thin towels to clean up something thick and disgusting? It's not fun.

On my way out I feel a hand grab mine and pull me into the party room. I hear the "click" of the lock behind me in the pitch black darkness and fear suddenly enters my body. Who has locked me in here?

"Hello," a voice says.

"Who are you?"

"Oh you know me . I'm ."

**Enjoy? Please let me know. I am sorry for the long stretch. Well actually,long long stretch, but I really needed to mull things over. Reviews are always appreciated. **


	12. Chapter 12

Harsh, fake light suddenly fills the room, making everything ugly.

, once standard looking, almost looks inhuman and evil under the illumination. His skin, usually unnoticeable, is now a pasty white. It droops and sags, creating a much older man. The once friendly brown eyes are currently bottomless pits of darkness.

"Nice to meet you here," he says slyly as if he didn't drag me in here himself. A cold, metal chair is taken from the far end of the room.

"Ladies first," he says while gesturing to the chair. I politely sit while he takes out another similar chair for him to sit on.

"Now, Katniss." He's says my name as if he were a snake, making the s into a slithering hiss.

"Perhaps you are wondering why I decided to talk to you. That is no matter. The real matter is."

"Today." A sickly grin stretches over his face.

"You said in your application that you adore kids. Is that correct?" he asks, quickly changing the subject.

"Yes," I lie quietly.

"I said 'Is that correct'?"

"Yes," I said loudly.

"Very good." A slight pause enters the room and handles a folder I didn't notice before. It is black, embossed in a leathery texture. In gold lettering inscribed words I can't make out appear.

"Do you know what this is?"

"A folder," I say, wondering why he asked, or more exactly, why he is even showing me this.

"Oh no. This is not just any folder."

"This," he opens it, uncovering a secret to be shown.

"Is a very special folder."

"You see, , each applicant has his or her own folder, per say. You, my dear" I flinch at the word dear and he smiles slightly, having noticed my discomfort as his word of endearment.

"Are the first person ever to see this."

"Why am I showing you this, you might ask?" he taunts.

"Well I could be showing you this because you are a secretary and like to look at folders, which is certainly not true. I could also be showing you this because black folders are in fashion and you simply have to have one. This is also false."

"The real reason I am showing you this is because, Katniss," he again hisses my name.

"You need to be taught a lesson." The words vibrate through my mind, repeating and repeating.

"What lesson?" I ask, my voice slightly dry.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he scolds.

A black and white paper is drawn out, crisp and fresh. I lean over; trying to read it, but 's hand touches my shoulder, pushing me back. I instinctively push it away.

"We can't be getting too close, now, can we?" Adjusting his position, he leans back, mulling over the paper. We sit in silence for a minute while I stare down at my shoes, waiting until something breaks the ice.

"Do you know whose name is on this, ?" The paper is in front of my nose now and I can clearly read the name.

"Mine," I answer.

"Yes. Yes, this is your name. Your own folder. Would you like to explain why you have a folder?"

"You said every applicant had one," I mumble.

"Hmm? I have poor hearing, what did you say?"

"You said every applicant had one."

As he lowers the paper, apparently pleased with my loud explanation, I see every record of me, from dental to school.

"I didn't give you these records."

"I know."

"Then where did you get them?" I demand.

"Oh, I have my…connections," he again flashes that snarky smile.

"Where did you get them?" I repeat. If he has access to my records, then what else can he take? Does he have power over my family, Prim?

"It is none of your concern," he says dismissively.

"It is my concern!" I yell, standing up.

"Sit down please." I refuse. We stand, eyes locked and ablaze with internal fire.

"Sit down," he says through gritted teeth, barely controlling his anger. Realizing I have lost the fight, I unwillingly sit back down.

"Where were we again? The records, of course. It is nothing for you to worry about. I have no power over Prim." My eyes flash with recognition. How did he know what I was thinking merely moments before?

"I do know of your sister. It is a small town, no? Over the years I have become acquainted with nearly everyone in town."

"Not me."

"Not you. I had my reasons. Why would I dare approach the forbidden, exclusive Katniss?"

"You accepted me though," I point out.

"Ah, yes. I accepted you freely, with no persuasion."

"Then why did you accept?" I inquire. He pauses, tilting his head while always keeping contact with my eyes.

"You are treasured here, do you know that?"

"Treasured? I've been here for a few days. How can I be treasured?"

"You don't have to be here for a considerably long time to be treasured."

"You see, each employee brings something to the table, a talent to be used. For instance, Tom, my planner, has a clear mind and is an excellent employee. Always gets the job done on time, presents wonderful ideas." drifts off in thought.

"But you, you are something special."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Hard workers are difficult to find."

"I'm a hard worker?" I question in disbelief. Sure I work, but does the title "hard worker" apply to me? It certainly hasn't been used before.

"You, unlike other employees, have someone to work for."

"That's not true," I say.

"But it is. Other workers, they work for their own benefit. Earn some money for themselves, get a bigger house, blah, blah, blah." rolls his eyes, almost as though they were the most hideous employees ever.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Oh now you're popping the big question. The reason I'm telling you all this is because," he brandishes the paper.

"I could do this." He tears the paper apart and stamps on it for good measure.

Seeing my expression, he says, "I have other ones." But I was not worried about the paper, no, not at all. A looming threat was placed upon my head, a threat that could threaten me and my family's life.

The joke's on him. _Playkins_ is simply a back up, a support system. Even if I do lose this job, with Haymitch's money and the money from _Savvy Shop_, I could still support my family. That is, if Haymitch is still making money.

However, I pretend to be scared and intimidated.

Satisfied, he smiles his wicked smile and closes the folder.

"And that is why I brought you here, ."

"You may go now," he says, but I have already stood up.

As I open the door I let out a breath I was unaware I was holding. Only one thought is on my brain, a thought that never rests. It tells me over and over again. A new enemy has appeared.

**For some odd reason, the uploader hates the name " " and " ". So I had to add in the names. Does anyone know why this happens? The uploader hates me and just deletes the names when try to I type them in. So if you see _, then it is not a typo. It is just this uploader. I have absolutely no idea how to fix this! Why don't you like my names, uploader?**

**I just love writing mean characters. _is so fun to write. He's the kind of character I would hate from the very beginning. Thank you for reading and, as always, feedback is appreciated. :) **

**Was this whole author's note confusing? I'm sorry.**


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